Immortal Spirit
by Dimaethor
Summary: After the skirmish on the way to Helm's Deep, both Legolas and Aragorn are apparantly dead. Aragorn survived his fall over the cliff, but Legolas' spirit is not at rest. Far from it, in fact. Have deleted and replaced the confusing chapter 4.
1. Death

I'd better start out with a disclaimer, so here goes: I do not own Lord of the Rings. It's Tolkien's.  
  
And a message to my readers: A blood and gore warning. Nothing R or NC-17, just a decapitation.  
  
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"Tell me what happened, and I will ease your passing," Gimli growled at the orc. The orc just laughed. "He took at little tumble off the cliff! Ha ha!" "You lie!" he shouted. But Gimli knew it was true. The Evenstar glittered from the orc's hand. Gimli felt a deep anger rise in him, that so hideous a creature should hold so fair a jewel, stolen from so great and noble a man. The dwarf snatched the Evenstar from the dead orc. As he held it in his hand, he pondered what to do with it. Eventually, he decided that it was best with its owner. He took one last glance at it, and flung it into the deep, rushing water beneath the cliff.  
  
Gimli sighed heavily. Deep as his grief was, he would have to help the others. He went to go find that blasted elf and.the elf! Legolas! Where was he?  
  
Gimli realized that he hadn't seen Legolas since before Aragorn had fallen. Legolas could defend himself, everyone knew that, but there was something nagging at his mind.Of course he was alright, that elf had been fighting and winning for thousands of years before he himself had been born. But still.if he was set upon by too many orcs.  
  
"LEGOLAS!" Gimli shouted. There was no answer. He shouted again, to no effect. "Theoden, have you seen him?" he asked frantically. "Have you seen the elf?" Theoden shook his head. "Not lately. He was over there when I last saw him." Theoden pointed to where several soldiers were building a large pile of orc cadavers, meant for burning.  
  
"Legolas!" Gimli shouted with increasing panic. "Where are you?" Then he saw it, and he felt his heart drop to his feet.  
  
A hand. A white hand sticking out of the pile of dead orcs. Gimli rushed to the pile. Long fingers, callused fingertips where a bowstring might twang. Vambraces, obviously of elvish make, with intricate designs pounded into the dark leather. Remnants of a black glove. A hand by which countless orcs had fallen, an infinite number of enemies dispatched. Legolas' hand.  
  
With no little effort, Gimli attempted to pull his friend from the pile of putrid remains. He had no idea if his friend was alive or dead, but he was desperate to find out. "Please help me!" he pleaded to the soldiers. Two of them came over, and together, they pulled the elf from the pile.  
  
What they found made Gimli want to vomit.  
  
He had been beheaded. The archer's entire torso was covered in bright red blood, streaming from the severed neck. Maybe it wasn't Legolas, or so Gimli's panicking mind deduced. It couldn't be, Legolas couldn't die, not like this, not this undignified. No, no, never. It would have been quick, an arrow through the heart, or a stab in the chest, not this.  
  
Gimli knelt at the warrior's side. He had to make sure. The clothes were all dyed red, blood red. But the hands. and the weapons. White knives, longbow, quiver full of elvish arrows.  
  
Gimli felt physically sick. His two best friends, both dead. One fell to his death, the other was decapitated. He just stood there, gaping. How could he have let this happen? How?  
  
Theoden walked over and stood next to him, his hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he was all he could find words to say. "But we must go, and soon, before more orcs arrive. We must leave the dead." The king swallowed hard. How was he supposed to explain his next words to a grieving friend?  
  
"His head?" he asked. Gimli looked at him, aghast. "What?" was all he could say. "Have you found his head?" Theoden asked again, gently. Gimli shook his head. "No." Theoden searched gingerly. "He fell here. It would not do well to burn his fair face with the orcs." This got the dwarf's attention. Slowly, Gimli rose from his friend's body. He, too, began to search for the head.  
  
Fifteen minutes' effort produced no results. "We need to move out," said Theoden quietly. "No," said Gimli quietly, determinedly. "I must find it. For him." "I'm sorry, but we must go. Before more orcs attack. We need to go now." "But." "They would not have wanted you to linger. Neither Aragorn nor Legolas would have wanted you dead because of them when there was nothing left to do for them." Gimli knew Theoden was right.  
  
"We will have to dispose of him, Gimli. I'm sorry." Theoden sighed. "We have no time to bury him." Once again, Gimli felt sick. "You mean to." "Yes. Not with the orcs. With our own fallen soldiers." Gimli nodded mutely. He walked off, in a daze. A soldier picked up Legolas' body and dropped it onto the pile of already ablaze bodies of other fallen Rohirrim.  
  
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Gimli stumbled through the gates of Helm's Deep. Eowyn took one look at the expression on his face and gasped. "Which one?" she whispered. Gimli looked at her through grief-stricken eyes. "Both."  
  
Eowyn gaped. "No. Not both. Aragorn. And Legolas. Valar, no!" Gimli nodded. She regained her composure. "How?" "I shouldn't tell, lady." "No, tell me." Gimli sighed. "Aragorn fell from a cliff. His body was not found. Legolas was beheaded by an orcish blade." Eowyn blanched. "Oh, Valar! Both. Both are gone. The ones who were to lead us to victory. Oh gods, why?" "I do not know, milady," said Gimli quietly. "I do not know."  
  
Gimli walked to a spare room and through himself down on the bed. He wept. He wept for Aragorn, the man who was supposed to save them all. He wept for all those who had fallen. But most of all, he wept for Legolas. Gone forever.  
  
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Well? Tell me what you think. 


	2. Nightmares and Guilt

Infinite thanks to all who reviewed! I was wondering if I was going to get flames for killing of Legolas.  
  
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A body lay in a bonfire, clothes burning despite being soaked in blood, then flesh, finally, the bare bones charring and blackening.  
  
"NO!" Gimli awoke bathed in a cold sweat. Sweet Aule! He had been having these nightmares since the death of Aragorn and Legolas. Sometimes it was of Aragorn, his body crushed and slipping into the icy water. Sometimes (and more often) it was Legolas, streaming bright elven blood or burning to an unrecognizable crisp.  
  
Gimli was almost afraid to sleep for fear that he would see one of his friends. So many had been lost- first Gandalf, then Boromir, then Merry and Pippin, then Gandalf returned, and Merry and Pippin recovered, but now he had lost Aragorn and Legolas. It was a Fellowship of six.  
  
Knowing that he couldn't rest, Gimli decided to take a walk. His feet led him out of the palace, and into the garden. He collapsed on one of the stone benches, and stared up at the stars his friends had so loved. Gimli had always wondered what elves found so fascinating about stars. But now he understood. Or at least, he thought he did. Stars were always the same. Through death, despair, and torture, the stars would always be there, shining.  
  
And as he sat there, Gimli dozed off again.  
  
This time, it was both of them. Aragorn and Legolas, circling the dwarf, screaming of betrayal. Legolas' body was whole, as was Aragorn's, but both of them were bathed in an unearthly green light. Their eyes were sunken, and their cheeks hollow. Their whole faces were complete caricatures of the real elf and ranger. Again and again they berated him, accusing Gimli of cowardice, of failure, of downright treachery. In his dream, Gimli fell to his knees, pleading. "Leave me be! I did nothing! I did nothing!"  
  
The dwarf fell from the bench and awoke when he hit the cold, hard ground. "I did nothing!" he whispered. Then what he was saying hit him. He had done nothing. Absolutely nothing. He had done nothing while his friends were dragged over cliffs, beheaded, slaughtered, butchered. Gimli's mind raced over what he could have done.  
  
He could have killed the warg before it dragged Aragorn over. He could have freed the man's hand from the warg rider's saddle. He could have caught him before he went over.  
  
He could have been there to help Legolas fight off the orcs. He could have pushed him out of the way of the orc's final stroke. He could have given the elf the opportunity to be somewhere else.  
  
Gimli's rational side told him that Aragorn and Legolas would not want him acting like this. That his real friends (as opposed to the demons haunting his dreams) would have understood, would have forgiven him. But his heart screamed that it was all his fault, that he was responsible, that he had murdered the two people closest to him. That the least he could have done would have been to be there, with them, in their final minutes. Although, some morbid part of him said, there hadn't exactly been any final minutes for either of them. It had been quick, but as for painless, he knew naught.  
  
Gimli decided to think about what his friends would be doing right now. Aragorn would probably be sleeping haphazardly on a bed, the coverlet halfway across the room. No, scratch that, Aragorn would probably be sleeping under the bed. As the ranger himself put it, "Rangers are not accustomed to houses of stone." Gimli almost smiled. What a joke, especially from someone raised in Rivendell. Or maybe Aragorn would be sitting on his windowsill fingering the Evenstar and dreaming of his beloved.  
  
Legolas would probably be out here in this very garden, perhaps on the very bench Gimli was sitting on. He would be singing to the stars, or conversing with the trees (a characteristic that annoyed Gimli to no extent) or plotting new ways to force Aragorn to take a bath. Or perhaps Legolas would be writing in that infernal book he always carried. Gimli had once asked to see it,, and the elf had complied, laughing. Gimli saw why he was laughing when he examined the journal- it was all written in elvish. "The Grey Tongue?" he had asked. Legolas shook his head. "No, the High Tongue." Gimli was astounded. "But you told me it was no longer spoken!" "It isn't," Legolas had replied. "But it is still used for ceremony, and as a young elf, my father gave me some basic lessons in it. From then on, I was captivated. I use the High Tongue every chance I get, including in my journal. Don't bother asking Aragorn to translate, he isn't fluent." And with that, Legolas had gone back to writing.  
  
Gimli gave a start. The book, it must have burned with him. Maybe he should have taken it, to return to Legolas' father? Or maybe it was better to let the archer's secrets die with him.  
  
No, Gimli decided, thinking like this wouldn't help the situation, not like anything actually could right now. The dwarf decided to switch tactics, deciding instead to focus on what his friends might say to him if they knew of his deeds, of his dreams, of his guilt.  
  
Aragorn would look at him strangely and tell him that he wasn't acting normal. Aragorn would tell him to cheer up, that none of this was his fault, that he must be strong enough for the three of them. He would also thank Gimli for the return of the Evenstar.  
  
Legolas would laugh. He would tell Gimli that he was acting too much like an elf for his own good. That it is the fate of the elves, and the elves alone, to grieve like this. Gimli sighed. If only they knew. If only they knew the torment that he was going through, while they were packed safely off in some afterlife or another. Gimli wasn't sure, no one had ever told him of what the elvish or human afterlives were like.  
  
There was nothing left for Gimli in the garden, so he returned to his chamber, to start a new nightmare, and after that, another terrible, anguishing day.  
  
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Hahaha! I love character torture!  
  
Cheysuli: Wait and see!  
  
Neko-Megami-Chan: Hey, someone else who adds 'chan' to the end of their name! I always have, Casey-chan helps people distinguish me from our resident Casey-san at my self-defense class. Well written? No one ever told me that before!  
  
Starlit Hope: Yep, Leggy returns! Not to mention Leggy scares everyone else out of their wits! 


	3. Ink in the Pen

Thank you to all who reviewed!  
  
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The day Aragorn returned was when things started happening.  
  
When Gimli was told that Aragorn had returned, he didn't believe it. He had to see for himself, naturally. The dwarf rushed down to the entry hall as fast as he could. It was true, much to Gimli's joy. He rushed forward and embraced the ranger.  
  
"Aragorn, You are the luckiest, uncanniest, and the most reckless man I ever knew! Bless you laddie!"  
  
"Gimli, where is the king?" asked Aragorn. "Aragorn, wait." Gimli pulled Aragorn into a spare room. "There is something I have to tell you."  
  
Aragorn was puzzled. The dwarf seemed near tears. "Gimli, what is it?" Then realization dawned on him. "Gimli, where is Legolas?" he asked, more sharply than he intended.  
  
Gimli closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Aragorn. So sorry." "Gimli what is it?" asked Aragorn frantically. Gimli thought for a moment before speaking. He considered using euphemisms, but it wouldn't seem right. Legolas had not passed away. Nor had he left, or been lost. "He's dead."  
  
Aragorn's jaw dropped. He felt like he would faint. "Dead?.no, how? Valar, dead?" Gimli nodded sadly. "Killed by orcs." Aragorn nodded weakly.  
  
Suddenly, Gimli began to weep. "I let you down," he whispered. "You and Legolas alike. I let you down." Aragorn felt the same way. "Legolas.oh, Legolas, I could have saved you. But I was too weak, too weak. I let you down."  
  
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That night left the companions with their own thoughts. Gimli returned to the garden, while Aragorn opted for the windowsill in his quarters.  
  
Gimli thought about Aragorn. He was joyful, of course that the ranger had returned. But could you really feel guiltless about rejoicing over the recovery of one friend while mourning another? Could he really celebrate Aragorn's return to life while grieving for Legolas? How was one supposed to act, supposed to feel?  
  
Meanwhile Aragorn sat on the windowsill, smoking and remembering. He remembered his and Legolas' first (and rather unfortunate) encounter in the Mirkwood prisons. He remembered all the scrapes Legolas and he had gotten into when they were younger. Well, when Aragorn himself was younger. A few decades didn't matter to an elf. But to think that his friend was gone. . .no, dead. Not gone to the West, but dead. Aragorn stared at his pipe, remembering how his friend had hated his habit of smoking. With a sigh, he let the pipe slip from his hand. And he cried. For the first time in decades, the ranger cried.  
  
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Gimli was getting cold. He remembered how that blasted elf was never cold, not even on Caradhras. He decided to return to his chambers.  
  
Along the way, he stopped to gaze at the flowers growing in the pathway. He thought of what his father would say, a dwarf looking at flowers. What a joke. In the very corner of the pathway, there was a bush bearing white roses. A thought struck him. How utterly like Legolas those white roses were. Fair, and beautiful, yet dangerous if you tried to take one. Yet they never lasted once they were chopped off from the vine. How poetic, yet how morbid.  
  
Gimli shook his head sadly and continued towards his quarters. He climbed onto the bed (no small achievement, for a dwarf) and settled into bed. As he reached over to blow out the candle on his bedside table, something caught his eye.  
  
On the other edge of the table, in the ghostly candlelight, there was something small, dark, shaped like a rectangle, but flat. Remarkably like that journal of Legolas'. Gimli reached over and grabbed it.  
  
Gimli's eyes grew wide at the sight. It looked like Legolas' book. Gimli didn't quite dare to open it. Instead, he examined the cover. It was black leather, with intricate needlework covering it, also in black. The way the book caught the candlelight, Gimli thought, for a split second, that he saw Legolas' ghostly face worked into the cover. The small scratches on the leather cover were the same. Gimli lifted it to his face and smelled it. It was Legolas' familiar scent, that of fresh leaves on a spring day. It was Legolas' book!  
  
Gimli's heart raced. How in the name of Aule had that book gotten here? It had burned with him. Legolas' journal was always in the pocket of his inner tunic. Unless he had given it to Aragorn. . .  
  
Yes, that was it. Legolas had given his journal to Aragorn. Gimli didn't know when, or why, but he needed to make sure. He slid from his bed and ran as fast as he could to Aragorn's room.  
  
The ranger was still on his windowsill when Gimli got there. The dwarf startled the man so much that he nearly fell to the ground, several floors below. "Aragorn!" shouted Gimli as the ranger steadied his self.  
  
"What is it?" asked Aragorn, who was shocked at the expression on Gimli's face. "His journal!" said Gimli. "I have Legolas' journal. Did he give it to you?" "What?" Aragorn was confused. "Explain more slowly. What happened?"  
  
"I had just returned to my room from the garden and I found Legolas' journal on my table," explained Gimli. "Did you put it there?"  
  
Aragorn shook his head. "Of course not. Maybe one of the other soldiers took it?" "No, for certain not," said Gimli. "How do you know?" "Never mind that right now. None of the soldiers could have taken it."  
  
Aragorn was perplexed by this comment, but he let it go. Instead, he grabbed the journal from Gimli's hand and opened it.  
  
Gimli and Aragorn stared at the words. The intricate script, the strange inks. Legolas obviously couldn't take enough ink from Rivendell to last through the whole journey, so he made it himself from whatever he found on the trail. Every night without fail, he would sit by the fire, repairing damaged arrows and fletching new ones. After his task was finished, he would take the berries, leaves, and flowers he had gathered that day out of his pocket and mash them together, mixing them with water and the like to form ink, which he then used in his journal.  
  
Gimli and Aragorn slowly thumbed through the pages. Aragorn could only pick out a few words here and there, and Gimli could read none of them at all, but they both recognized different points of the journey from the color of the ink. There was the red ink borrowed from Lord Elrond while he was in Rivendell, then the grey-green from the plants on the way to Caradhras. Next were the writings from the mountain itself. Here the two friends smiled sadly; Legolas had been so obsessively devoted to his writing that, lacking the necessary wildlife to make ink, he had foregone some of his rations in order to write with whatever he had been eating that day. Aragorn had become rather worried about Legolas at that point, believing that when the food ran out, Legolas would resort to writing with his own blood.  
  
Then there was the text from Moria, where the writing was with the soot from long-abandoned fires. The handwriting was rather wobbly and messy, seeing as Legolas had been writing in almost pitch-black. Then the entries made in Lorien, with silver ink. After that, up until their arrival in Rohan, Legolas wrote with crushed berries from the trail. In Rohan, he had used black ink. The last entry was in blue, borrowed from Eowyn.  
  
Aragorn examined the last entry curiously. "What do you read?" Gimli asked him. "I can't understand much, but the words 'head' and 'fire' seem to come up often. Here is 'battle' no, that word there is 'skirmish' and here is 'death'."  
  
Gimli nearly passed out. "Oh, gods!" he whispered. "What? What is it?" asked Aragorn abruptly. But Gimli was muttering absently to himself. "Gimli? What is it?" inquired Aragorn again. "Aragorn, he knew! He knew!" "Knew what?" "Legolas knew of his death!"  
  
Aragorn looked at Gimli. "What?" he said slowly, clearly. "What did you say?" "Aragorn, he knew of his death, I tell you! Don't ask me how!" "How do you know Legolas knew that he would die?"  
  
Gimli swallowed hard. "Aragorn, Legolas knew of the manner of his death. He was ~ beheaded." "But what does that prove?" asked Aragorn with barely masked panic. "He could have been talking about the head of an order, or he could have had a headache." "But that doesn't explain why he wrote 'burn' or 'skirmish' or 'death'!"  
  
Aragorn suppressed the feeling of dread rising within him and tried to keep a logical mind. After all, one word didn't prove anything. "Skirmish makes sense, and so does death, but what about 'burn'?"  
  
Gimli took a shuddering breath. "Aragorn, they burned his body. The soldiers burned his body, and the book with him."  
  
Aragorn's eyes grew wide. "Oh, Valar, no!"  
  
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Wow, writing angst is the polar opposite of writing humor, I just found that out for sure.  
  
LegolasLover2004: Wait and see. . .**walks off snickering evilly**  
  
NekoMegami-chan: I started Landslide, its very good so far!  
  
Draconic Lupine Moon: Thank you, and I'll try to update frequently!  
  
Starlit Hope: Heehee, I can't wait for our ghost-of-Leggy to show up, either!  
  
Cheysuli: You know, I wasn't planning on writing any more about the book, but you gave me a good idea! So, thank Cheysuli for keeping this story interesting (I hope)! 


	4. Questions

Oh, Valar, I am sooo embarrassed! I still can't believe I made such a stupid mistake.  
  
Okay, here is a valid explanation for the weirdest chapter ever posted in the history of angst. I had a friend over to my house, and she used my computer to write a chapter for her story. My friend is Lady Laswen, and she writes humor, if you want to read it. Well anyway, I was writing this chapter before I had my Aikido class. I really had to get down to the dojo because I was late, so I uploaded as fast as I could. Unfortunately, I uploaded my friend's chapter, which happened to have a similar title. That is the reason for the little random dash of humor. Good humor, though. Please accept my apology.  
  
Your very embarrassed author, Dimaethor  
  
P.S.- I was beginning to wonder why everyone hated it!  
  
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It was near midnight, and still Aragorn and Gimli paced the room, trying to find answers.  
  
"Now Gimli," said Aragorn. "Tell me calmly, and slowly, everything that has happened since the death of Legolas up until when you ran into my room."  
  
Gimli nodded. "You fell over the cliff. A dying orc, who was holding the Evenstar, told me. I thought you were dead, so I took the jewel and cast it into the river, so it could go with you." At this, Aragorn looked horrified. "The Evenstar- I haven't even thought of it! You threw it into the waters?" Gimli nodded sadly. "I'm sorry, my friend. I thought you were gone for good. If I had known. . ." Gimli trailed off.  
  
"That's all right, it cannot be helped," said Aragorn. "Pray continue."  
  
"After I disposed of the Evenstar, I realized the elf was missing. I shouted, but no answer came. Then-" -Gimli swallowed hard- "then I saw his hand under a pile of dead orcs, about to be burned. I went to pull him out, but I couldn't. Several soldiers came to my aid, and we recovered the body. His head was gone."  
  
Aragorn recoiled slightly. The manner of his friend's death still hadn't completely registered. "Where did you find his head?" he whispered.  
  
Gimli winced. He still hadn't gotten over the guilt of not being able to give the archer a proper burial. Failing that, he could of at least found the rest of his departed companion. "We never found it."  
  
Aragorn thought he had already discovered all the gruesome surprises that day. He hadn't. The man's mind reeled. This was beyond his limits. The ranger barely managed to steady himself on the table. He slumped forward in his seat.  
  
A minute of dead silence passed. Then Aragorn spoke. "So, what you are trying to tell me is that his head is still out there? Being devoured by wargs, desecrated by orcs? Legolas was one of the firstborn, DO YOU REALIZE THAT?" By now, he was shouting.  
  
A single tear rolled down Gimli's cheek. "I'm so, so sorry, Aragorn. So sorry." Aragorn stopped shouting. For the second time in one night, he cried. "No, Gimli," he managed to choke out. "I shouldn't have gotten angry. And anyways, if I hadn't been so careless and gotten dragged over the cliff, I could have been there. . ."  
  
The two friends stopped and looked at each other. "No," said Aragorn decidedly. "He wouldn't have wanted this. We shouldn't sit around blaming ourselves like this. "At least, not until we have gotten through this," added Gimli.  
  
"Now, what happened after you found his body?" asked Aragorn.  
  
"I needed to make sure it was really him," continued Gimli. "And how did you do that?" asked Aragorn. "His clothes were covered in blood, but the hands were Legolas'. Theoden King told me to look for the head. We didn't find it. Eventually, the company needed to move out. The soldiers threw his body on the bonfire with the other fallen."  
  
Aragorn sat with his eyes closed. "And then you arrived in Helm's Deep."  
  
Gimli nodded. "Yes. I kept to myself and to my grief until you arrived. I told you what happened. That was earlier tonight. You were in here and I was in the garden. I became cold, so I went into my room. The journal was on my night table. I ran in here with it, and here we are."  
  
Aragorn mused on Gimli's story. "About the book." "What about it?" asked Gimli. "How did it get here, why is it here, when did it get here, and, perhaps both most and least important, what does it say?"  
  
"Why both most and least important?" Gimli asked. "Most, because of what apparently was the foretelling of Legolas' death," answered Aragorn. "Least important, because no one could read high tongue among us except Legolas and Gandalf."  
  
"Then why could we not have Gandalf read it?" asked Gimli. Aragorn sighed. "Several reasons. For one, Gandalf might think it disrespectful to the dead, or he may think that the journal should be returned to King Thranduil. Secondly, there are dialects. There is one High Tongue, but there are several ways of writing it. I am not sure which one Legolas used. For all I know, he could have been taught some obscure Mirkwood branch of the original language known only to the more ancient of the Sindarin. And thirdly, Gandalf isn't there." Gimli could see the logic in this.  
  
"What about how it got here?" Gimli posed the next question.  
  
Aragorn thought about it. "Are you sure it was in Legolas' pocket when he was killed?"  
  
Gimli shook his head. "I couldn't promise you that it was. He foretold his death, he could have seen fit to pass the book on to someone else, who put it in my rooms." "Good thinking," Aragorn said.  
  
"Or it could have fallen out of his tunic when he was cut down," said Aragorn. "Then someone picked it up, recognized it as his, and gave it to his closest friend." "But how would we confirm this? There are far to many soldiers to question."  
  
Gimli agreed. "And anyhow, I feel that this is a matter to be kept to ourselves."  
  
Aragorn sighed. "It is too late for such deductions. You should get some sleep." Gimli nodded his consent, bade Aragorn goodnight, and walked towards his chambers.  
  
As Gimli climbed into bed for the second time that night, he glanced at the bedside table, offhandedly wondering if there would be something else for him.  
  
What he saw there made him shriek.  
  
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Ooh, major cliffy! (Although one that's rather easy to guess!) Heeheehee, wait for the next installment!  
  
Jegolas: Okay, I try. Believe me, with all the running around I do, it isn't easy. But still, twelve hours of martial arts a week can't be all that bad for you. can it? (  
  
Obsidian Raven: You like it? Writing angst is usually a pretty thankless task, unless you're really good, like Cassia and Siobhan's level.  
  
Sparrow Greenleaf: Wholesome LOTR goodness! Wow, no one's ever told me that before. Very nice review, and I hope you continue to like my story!  
  
Middleman: I know, I hate it when a good angst writer takes a month to update. I will try to avoid that phenomenon!  
  
Cheysuli: Not necessarily. I think Aragorn is just upset, you know, about the state of Legolas' death. I mean, wouldn't you be pretty upset if you found out that your best friend was beheaded and then burned? But you are right about one thing: Legolas isn't quite all the way to Mandos! Find out why in coming chapters.  
  
NekoMegami-Chan: Haha! I hope my muses saw that. You called it a great chapter! Yippee! Yeah. . .so maybe I'm getting a bit overexcited, but thanks!  
  
Starlit Hope: Believe me, I know a certain ranger and dwarf who would want to be hiding under their beds by the time this is all over. Tor-TURE! Tor- TURE! 


	5. The First Appearances

Sorry about the space between updates. And, yet again, I apologize for the rather unusual chapter four. And onward to the story!  
  
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Gimli's breath came in ragged gulps. He was imagining things, yes, that was it. Undoubtedly hallucinations brought on by grief or lack of sleep and food. Yes, that was it.  
  
But try as he might, Gimli couldn't bring himself to believe that he was imagining the figure that stood by his bedside.  
  
A transparent figure stood by the bed, glowing faintly. Tall and thin, wearing a ragged tunic. Long, floating hair. But there was something wrong. Very wrong indeed, for in place of a face was a skull. A skull, frozen in a perpetual, final grin.  
  
Gimli instinctively reached for his battle axe. He held it in a fighting stance even as he clambered out of bed. "Back! Back, I tell you!" he shouted.  
  
Gimli dropped his axe and ran from the room. He dashed down the hall and into Aragorn's room. The ranger snored slightly, sound asleep. Gimli shook him awake.  
  
"Wha...what is it?" muttered Aragorn sleepily. He opened one eye. "Gimli? What in Arda?..."  
  
"Ghost!" Gimli managed to choke out. "Legolas! In my room..."  
  
Aragorn closed his eye again. "Go back to bed. It was a dream."  
  
"No, I swear it!" Gimli half-shouted. But it was no use; the ranger had fallen asleep again. Gimli collected himself. It could have been a dream. That made more sense than a back-from-the-dead elf. He shakily strode from the room.  
  
Before he entered his chamber, Gimli paused. He really didn't want to see that horrific sight again, even if it was a dream (which, by now, he was convinced it was). He took a deep breath, and stepped inside.  
  
There was no one, nothing. Just an innocent bed, night table, and dresser. The window had curtains, which floated lazily in the night breeze.  
  
Gimli sighed with relief. It had been a dream, after all. Possibly related to the curtains floating like that. It made perfect sense.  
  
He climbed into bed and slept surprisingly soundly that night.  
  
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The next day passed as the others had- melancholy and slow. By now, the grief was beginning to ebb, if only because Gimli and Aragorn realized that there was work to do. Forging weapons, cleaning the stables, and the like.  
  
Gimli had been designated to care for Arod, a final favor to Legolas. Despite his original doubt concerning the beast, Gimli had become almost obsessive with its grooming, food, tack, and so on and so forth. Gimli had actually been on the verge of tearing a stable boy limb from limb when he had discovered that a piece of Arod's bit was missing. Aragorn assumed that he considered the horse a last link to their friend, the last living being that connected them. And it gave Gimli something to do besides mourning.  
  
And life went on.  
  
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That night, Gimli retired early. This time, there was no figure haunting him. He collapsed into bed, unusually tired from a day of fawning over that horse.  
  
That is, until hours later.  
  
Gimli woke from a dead sleep. Without opening his eyes, he vaguely wondered why he was awake. It couldn't be morning already.  
  
He opened his eyes to look out the window and see if it was day. But he didn't see the window.  
  
It was back.  
  
The figure was back, in the same spot by the bed. The skull for the face, still grinning. The hair, still fanning out behind it.  
  
Again, Gimli reached for his axe. But he didn't run this time. This time, he would stand his ground, and fight his own nightmare.  
  
He leapt to the ground in front of the phantom with his axe ready. In reply, the ghost drew its knives. Gimli swung, and was taken completely by surprise when the specter countered the blow.  
  
The weapons clashed, though not with the usual crash of steel. The sound seemed to echo around the room, ghostly, haunting.  
  
The spirit parried the dwarf's every strike, skillfully avoiding the blows. The battle lasted less than a minute. The phantom slid inside Gimli's reach, pushing one of its knives against his throat.  
  
Gimli managed to twist in the phantom's grasp, swinging his axe in one final, desperate attack. The weapon slid right through the spirit. The dwarf lost his hold on his blade, and it went sailing across the room, landing with a clatter in the corner.  
  
Gimli mentally berated himself. He should have known that would happen, not that his weapon would have done him much good should he have kept it. The knife at his throat felt cold, like ice. Not like any earthly dagger should have felt. He closed his eyes, waiting to die.  
  
Then the dagger was pulled away. Gimli opened his eyes in surprise. He saw the ghost sheathing its knives.  
  
Then, for just a moment, he saw the ghost's face. It was Legolas' face.  
  
Gimli fell to his knees. That face. He hadn't seen that face since Legolas had died. But almost as soon as it appeared, it vanished.  
  
"I'm dreaming," he gasped. "I'm only dreaming. That's all. It's only a dream."  
  
Legolas (as he must now be called) extended his hand. Gimli, still in shock, tried to touch it, but jumped in fear when he went right through. The face flickered again.  
  
Gimli tried to get up, to run to get Aragorn. But he seemed rooted to the spot. His legs felt out of his control. He was floating, or so it felt like.  
  
The ghost floated over to the journal. He picked it up. Gimli found himself wondering how his hand had gone right through the ghosts when the spirit could pick up a book. Then he remembered, Legolas was a ghost, he could do anything.  
  
Legolas gestured towards the book, then at himself. Gimli understood. "Take it, only go, and haunt me no more!" he shouted. The apparition tucked the book into the folds of his tunic, where it promptly disappeared.  
  
The curtains opened slightly with the wind. The moon was high in the sky. Legolas turned and stared at it for a moment with empty eye sockets. The he turned back to Gimli. He floated over and descended to eye level, his hand extended towards the dwarf.  
  
In his hand was the missing bit.  
  
Gimli shakily received the bit. It slid into his palm. Then Legolas disappeared.  
  
Gimli stared at the piece of tack. Then it dawned on him. Legolas' ghost hadn't been some apparition to be feared, or a denizen of Sauron. The spirit was that of a friend. And Gimli had tried to hurt it, had feared it.  
  
"Legolas, forgive me!" whispered Gimli into the darkness. "Come back!"  
  
But Legolas made no answer. Gimli collapsed on the stone floor, dead to the world.  
  
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Gimli awoke the next morning. At first he was slightly puzzled as to why he was on the floor, but he figured that he must have fallen out of bed during the night. Such was not unusual for him these days, seeing as how he had been suffering from nightmares. Speaking of nightmares...he seemed to have had a particularly bad one. Something about a ghost with a skull for a face...then he noticed the bit in his hand.  
  
It all came rushing back at once. The ghost, the sparring...Gimli reached out for the bedpost to steady himself. Gimli walked to the spot were the ghost had first appeared, by his bedside.  
  
There was a slip of parchment where he had found the journal. It was neatly folded. Gimli reached out and took it. He stared at the note, then unfolded it.  
  
It was written in a familiar hand. It was Legolas' note, as he had suspected. There were two words on it: Say nothing.  
  
Gimli stared. Say nothing. He would have done just that. But to Aragorn...should he tell Aragorn? He made his decision.  
  
Gimli rushed out of his quarters to find the ranger. Apparently he had overslept, for Aragorn was already working in the forge.  
  
"Aragorn! I must speak to you!" Gimli shouted above the pounding of the hammer. Aragorn wiped his hands on a rag and walked over. "What is it?" he asked, slightly annoyed.  
  
"Legolas!" Gimli gasped, out of breath from running. "Came back! He came back last night as a ghost! I swear it!"  
  
Aragorn gaped at Gimli in utter confusion. Then a look of mixed irritation and pity took over. "Gimli, he's not coming back. He's dead."  
  
Aragorn strode back to his work, partly out of anger, and partly to hide the tears. He resumed forging the knife he was working on.  
  
Little did he know...  
  
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ObsidianRaven: I know how you feel. I love Legolas deathfics, and all my friends are convinced that I'm nuts. I'm also a big fan of Cassia and Siobhan, and LAXgirl is another great angst writer (read her latest story, I forget the title) if you are into torture.  
  
Mrscribble: Good guess! I almost used that, but then things would get really confusing. And anyways, that would kind of mess up the plot I'm working for...  
  
Nekomegami-chan: Heehee...she calls us evil, does she? I'm going to hope that's a compliment, and thank you!  
  
And to Starlit Hope, Cheysuli, Totally Confused, and Itsuku Tachibana: My sincerest apologies! 


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